The Afghan Whigs’ ‘old’ album is something they’re fully equipped to make. It’s a direction they’ve been moving in since their reunion, arguably even earlier with 1965. It’s also something they’ve never really relented on, either. Age has never been treated as a balm to soften Greg Dulli’s narration; if anything, it puts the recklessness of earlier material under a clearer lens. The Afghan Whigs can’t be the cutthroat alt-rock band of the ‘90s forever, but they don’t have to pave over that side of themselves, either.
Soft Control really seeks to testify to that mindset. It does feel like an older band’s album, leaning heavily on the soul that would become so prominent within The Afghan Whigs’ work. At the same time, placidity isn’t a crutch. If anything, its most useful parallels are to artists like Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel, both of whom also muse about ageing and the consequence that past experiences within it have on an older man. It’s where the timelessness of their material comes from, something that Soft Control does a damn good job of emulating.
For something from a bit further afield, it’s not too dissimilar from territory that Thrice have been in with their later work. The churn and curdle aren’t quite there, but the gruffness is, and the lack of creative stifling is present across reference points. Admittedly, Soft Control gets off to a bit of a slow start in that respect with Jungle Roux. It’s too thin to properly convey a bluesy jam, exacerbated by backing vocals that hang limp and unsupported in a mix that needs to sizzle hotter. Afterwards, though, when Soft Control hits its stride, it’s undeniable. You feel it foremost on Duvateen, where the band really dig into that Modern American Songbook feel in soulful, steady, deep-running layers.
At its best, Soft Control is a dab hand at that unmistakably appealing strain of Americana and its humanity. Dulli remains an inspired songwriter, and a vocalist on the same wavelength of sitting with his creaks and imperfections. Outliers find it taken too far—the garbled verses of My Lover almost sound deliberately so—but generally, there’s the exact gravity that a performance like this demand. On The Deepest Part Of The Darkest Shadow and 77 (far from an exhaustive list), Dulli sounds rich and burnished; on Loose Talk, he’s breaking into a grand, impassioned chorus. All the while, there’s the undercurrent of more than simple crowd-pleasers. The weight of the alternative ‘90s remains tied to The Afghan Whigs, regardless of what might seem polished or placid from the outside.
And that’s not to disengage with how a good number of songs on Soft Control are, indeed, polished and placid. The overtly darker impulses of The Afghan Whigs’ catalogue have mostly dissipated, though not to point where they feel absent. This is still a full album, where work has clearly gone into giving it a full-bodied sound. Pianos and strings are commonplace inclusions, followed by shuffling hand percussion on House Of I and Duvateen giving some further glances in the ‘urban rockstar’ direction. What’s nicer is how wide the breadth of Americana-inspired sounds falls. Even in something as simple as the reverberating baritone of My Lover’s guitar, there’s something so evocative to grab onto. Further still are the horns on The Deepest Part Of The Darkest Shadow and Mariah Luster, or the big harmonica rips on Memphis, Texas, injecting so much boldness into a mix that doesn’t hurt for it.
By the end of it all, Soft Control probably isn’t some new frontier crossed for The Afghan Whigs, but it certainly isn’t a staid wheel-spinning exercise, either. There’s still so much impetus coursing through this band, fed into a sound that’s fresh but classic, and an approach towards embracing it to match. The Afghan Whigs (who formed 40 years ago, by the way) are still hitting tremendous heights, and doing so with some real grace. Soft Control makes sure that’s undeniable.
For fans of: Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, The Rolling Stones
‘Soft Control’ by The Afghan Whigs is released on 21st August on BMG.
Words by Luke Nuttall
